


Passenger's Side

by Pyukumukus



Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: 1998 Doomed Fragment, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:38:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14858105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyukumukus/pseuds/Pyukumukus
Summary: Amakusa finished a dirty job. He was leaving Japan tomorrow and brought a friend along.





	Passenger's Side

Amakusa liked speeding on the highway. He liked feeling the whip of the wind through the car’s windows, and he liked riding with the radio cranked up high to drown the roar of his engine. He had a scratched up CD he carried with him everywhere-- gifted to him by some girl he couldn’t remember the name of. Her lipstick had worn off the cover a long time ago, but her message was still scrawled on the CD in sharpie: _‘Thinking of you always’_. It made Amakusa laugh. He only kept the damn thing because he took a souvenir from every place he visited, prizes like scars, guns, gold, panties, and tiny pieces of broken hearts. That lady really fancied him, whoever she was.

M. Zakky came on and blared through the speakers. He drummed his fingers along to the beat and whistled the tune to himself. It was quiet on the road, and he filled the empty space with music. He had to admit the CD had some killer tracks on it. He pulled it out every once in a while when he wanted to have a good time. He was celebrating a job well-done and his freedom. He could blast the playlist without the whining of an teenaged brat.

Amakusa was leaving Japan tomorrow. He raced to his final rendezvous point and traveled at night in the thick dark of back-road highways. No one was crazy enough to drive like he did, when he did. That suited Amakusa fine. He chose this path because he liked danger-- risking his life made him feel alive and risking arrest made him feel smug. Okonogi bought him a one-way ticket to Russia and stuffed the pockets of the pilot so she’d keep her mouth shut. That slimeball pulled these strings months ago, before Madame Ushiromiya kicked the bucket. Amakusa seriously questioned if this was what the decrepit broad wanted all along-- after all, Ange insisted her aunt was a serial murderer. Maybe she was trying to finish the job from beyond the grave.

Well, if that were true, Ushiromiya Eva could rest easy knowing he hammered the last nail in her family’s coffin. Ange was the final one-winged eagle, and now that she was dead, the curtain fell on that accursed island. Only ghosts were left roaming there.

Saying that Amakusa went to see her before she died was misleading-- he climbed up the cliffside stairway to check the body count. Poor Ange, she was lying on her side, beaten and bloodied, a half-dead survivor of another Rokkenjima massacre. Amakusa didn’t know she was alive until he was close enough to see her shaking. She stared at him, but her gaze was so empty, Amakusa thought she died with her eyes open.

There was blood in her mouth and in the saliva which dribbled down her busted lip. From her wheezing, he could tell she was all fucked up inside. That Kasumi woman was a downright freak. Brutalizing a lady was against Amakusa’s modus operandi. Ange should have died while making her signature pout.

Amakusa planted a boot on her shoulder to roll her body over so she lay flat on her back. She moved like a sack of meat and moaned from her broken bones. He wanted to look her in the eyes when she died. His flimsy code of honor demanded it.

_It’s just business_ , he thought. Ange was a cute kid who had to die too young, but this scene wasn’t an unfamiliar sight-- he’d seen piles of kid corpses lining foreign roads. Exposure didn’t make the deed any less ugly, but  it made the job easier.

Ange watched as he stepped over her body. She held something close to her belly and squeezed it as tightly as she could. She looked like a goddamn child. Amakusa tsked at her for making this difficult.

Ange moved her lips and tried to speak, but all that came out was a hacking cough and a fine mist of blood. Her chest heaved. Her eyes were pleading. Amakusa had no clue what she wanted. _Help me live_ . _Help me die_. He wondered what her last words could have been, but this wasn’t a tragedy-- it was just life. That sort of stuff only happened in stories.

“Sorry, Ange-chan, and goodbye.”

_Bang_. Amakusa pulled the trigger.

That girl _lived_ to die. She went to Rokkenjima to reunite with corpses, to dig her grave, and to bury herself alive. Her spirit went to where her family was-- in that hole where the mansion once stood-- and her parting words would be something like,‘ _See you in hell_ ’. It always made him crack the fuck up. She was funny when she was alive. Now, she had a big hole in her head and brains blown all over the seaside bluff.

“ _Coooooool_.”

Amakusa turned the gun over in his hand. The Soviet artifact served him well. It made him feel like a Bond villain for a hot second, but once Miss Ushiromiya was dead, it became a cheap toy. He rubbed his prints off of it with a rag and tossed it over his shoulder. It wasn’t worth taking as a souvenir, not like the rifle in the golf bag. Amakusa had to thank Okonogi for it later, when he was palling around with bratva and killing human beings for cash.

Amakusa was looking forward to it. Stuff like that was mindless, automatic. Escorting this girl had been such a pain. Putting people out of their misery wasn’t as fun as shooting them at their best.

 

A dear shot out of the woods. Amakusa slammed on the brakes, hard. He was going at least 128 Km/h and almost hit the fucking thing as he skidded out on the road.

Amakusa swore out loud as Bambi disappeared into the wilderness, galloping away as fast as it could. Amakusa hurt from the violent lurch of his car when he stopped short. He had to slump back in his seat to take a deep breath. His pulse was still racing. Goddammit, that really shook him up.

He let his car idle as he tried to straighten out everything that fell off the dashboard. His newest prize fell onto the driver’s side floor, and he breathed a sigh of relief that it hadn’t gotten caught beneath the pedals. He picked up the lion doll and realized it had been stained by the mud caked in his combat boots. He slapped the thing, trying to beat out the dirt, and looked it over. Dark patches of blood covered its mink fuzz, but Amakusa figured he could get it out with some detergent and a little bit of scrubbing. It was still damp from where he washed it with seawater, and it wet his hands when he squeezed the little guy into the corner between the windshield and the dashboard. He couldn’t keep the thing forever, but for just a little while longer, he wanted someone to ride shotgun.

The beat-up, old car’s CD player was skipping. He had to slam his fist against it for it to work again and cursed Okonogi for being too cheap to buy him a new ride. They were going to trash this Toyota when Amakusa got to the airport, but Okonogi had enough money to let his hitman ride in style. It was a goddamn shame.

M. Zakky’s music came to life again, sputtering out of the speakers until it finally righted itself. Amakusa smiled. He could listen to this guy all night long as he rode alone.


End file.
